The Treasure of Maria Mamoun Read Online Free PDF Page B

it—the kind sails hung off of, but Maria couldn’t see any sails. It looked like a sailboat just the same. Maybe the sails got put away when they weren’t being used. Maybe that was the white clothlike thing below the naked poles. Maria didn’t know. She’d never been on a sailboat. In fact, she was pretty sure she didn’t even know anyone who had ever been on a sailboat. She wondered if she and her mom would get to use it. She craned her neck to see it better. The pressure of her head against the glass pushed the window open a crack and the cries of gulls filled the room.
    She pulled the glass shut and looked around. The sloping roof formed the walls on either side and the exposed wood beams were carved with letters and numbers. Maria traced the carvings in the nearest beam with her fingers: JM 1689, 1230, FH 1718, SI 1812 . She wondered who put them there, and why. She figured they were some kind of old-school graffiti: the letters were initials and the numbers were years. JM was here in 1689, SI in 1812. But 1230 made no sense. She knew there weren’t any houses like this in America back in 1230. The Pilgrims hadn’t even come over yet.
    The insulation between the beams looked as though it was made of clay and coarse hair. Maria touched it. It seemed like it came from some kind of animal—a horse’s mane or tail, perhaps? And what was this? Hay? And newspapers? It seemed whoever lived here had stuffed any old thing in between the eaves to keep out the cold drafts.
    Her fingers found something hard. She worked her hand a bit deeper. Whatever it was didn’t want to budge. She pinched it and wiggled it, until finally it slid out in a cloud of dust that showered her bed. She sneezed. The thing fell on the floor with a thump.
    â€œOkay up there?” Celeste called.
    â€œFine!” Maria looked at the strange item.
    It was a tube about a foot long, open on both ends, with two leather straps wrapped around and secured with square knots. She turned it over in her hands. Something was written on it, pressed into the leather and rubbed with fading ink:
    Property of Captain Jean Murde er; 1689.
    One letter was too squiggly to read. Captain Jean Murderer? What a horrible name. Maria wondered if it was made up.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” her mother called from downstairs.
    â€œNothing.” Maria dropped the tube on the bed. “Looking out the window. There’s a beach!”
    â€œBut of course there’s a beach—the cabbie said so last night!” Her mother popped her head through the hole.
    â€œCan I sleep here?” Maria slipped the tube under the pillow. For some reason, she wanted to keep it hidden. At least until she knew what it was.
    â€œWell, if the floorboards are safe and there’s nothing dangerous for you to get into. I’ll have to check it first—but now it’s time for breakfast. And after that we go to the Great House to meet Mr. Ironwall.”
    â€œThe great house?” Maria followed her mother downstairs.
    â€œWith a capital G and capital H . Apparently that’s what they call it, according to this note.” Celeste put the cinnamon rolls on the kitchen table and looked at her dusty daughter. “Of course, you’ll have to clean up first.”
    â€œOf course,” Maria replied. But she was thinking of the strange leather tube, and Captain Murderer, and wondering when she could get back and explore the attic for more ancient treasures.

 
    7
    T HE G REAT H OUSE
    The white façade of the Great House rose before them. The dark mirrors of its many windows flashed in the early morning sun. They were bumping down the long drive in a golf cart, the wheels crunching on the white surface, which Maria realized was made of smashed-up clamshells. Maria and her mother sat in the back seat, as the driver, a stocky man with graying brown hair, talked continually like a nervous tour guide.
    â€œMr. Ironwall